


After-Shock

by tumbleweedchaser



Series: Vigilante [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Lestrade is coming to terms, Sequel, seriously this won't make sense if you don't read the first part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleweedchaser/pseuds/tumbleweedchaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One month after the events in Vigilante, Lestrade is trying to come to terms with John's history.</p><p>_______</p><p>This is a one-shot from Lestrade's point of view, and a sequel to Vigilante, it will not make any sense whatsoever if you haven't read the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After-Shock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leobutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leobutler/gifts), [The_Consulting_Storyteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Consulting_Storyteller/gifts), [SubieZan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SubieZan).



> Hello Vigilante fans!
> 
> When I finished Vigilante, several of you expressed an interest in a follow-up story from Lestrade's point of view. It took me some time to put the idea together and determine the best way to go about it, but I feel like I've done it justice. So, without further ado: I give you After-shock!

~ Part 1 ~

Detective Inspector Lestrade allowed a heavy sigh to escape him. He stared down at the gruesome photos of two murdered women, both killed a week apart from each other, torn up beyond recognition. They’d managed to I.D. them using partial dental records. The two women definitely both fit a certain type of description. Early thirties, dark complexion, pretty by any man’s standard, highly educated, yet party-girls, as described by their friends and co-workers. Both bodies had been found early on Saturday mornings, which was why he was sitting in his office horrendously early on a Saturday waiting for a phone call he hoped would never come. 

An American he’d arrested once, long ago, had told him to spit in one hand and wish in the other to see which one filled up faster. The saying danced on his tongue when the call came in, a body had been found in an alleyway, a few blocks north of where the last one had been found, industrial district, the victim's face was completely smashed in.

He knew already it would be like the others when they got there, no obvious evidence, no hint at a usable lead, nothing he or his officers could read.

This was three. Three made a serial killer. Three meant there would be a fourth.

Three meant he had to call in Sherlock. And with Sherlock, came John. 

A shudder ran through Lestrade as the image of John’s steady hand and pitiless stare flickered through the film strip of his mind. A nervous laugh escaped him and he lifted his hands to rub over his tired eyes, “Oh yes, let’s hire a self-proclaimed sociopath and his live-in serial killer to track down this other serial killer, great idea.”

Lestrade had gone out of his way to avoid the duo since the events in the subway had taken place nearly a month ago. The thought of being in the same room as John sent his brain into a tizzy. His emotions went into a bit of a roller coaster ride that whipped from feelings of disgust and betrayal, built up into the cop’s instinct to arrest, before plummeting into a very real fear of the man. In his line of work he’d met a great many murderers and killers, but watching John kill Moriarty had made him witness to something much more sinister than he’d ever encountered before. Lestrade supposed he should be angry and disgusted with Sherlock as well, but keeping a serial killer as a flat mate just seemed like a Sherlock things to do. Dr. John Watson as the serial killer flat mate was a bit harder to wrap his mind around. 

His phone buzzed against his desk, alerting him to a text message. Sgt. Donovan wanted to know his estimated time of arrival. Lestrade gave a quick response and then stood to gather his things before heading to the lift. He caught himself grinding his teeth with tension, was John safe to have at a crime scene? Especially one with Sally there? He recalled their meeting at the crime scene some time back, when John had put her nearly in tears. Come to think of it, John had looked at her much the same way he had Moriarty just before shooting the man. The thought made his stomach turn.

He exited the lift, having just about convinced himself that they’d manage to solve this case without the help of Sherlock when his phone buzzed again. It was the elder Holmes this time, ‘Sending my brother and his doctor to assist, consider it a matter of national security’ – MH. A minute later a second one came through, ‘And no, you do not get a say in the matter’ –MH. 

The D.I. sucked in a deep breath, attempting to steady himself and to focus on the case at hand. John had never actually hurt any of his officers and damn it, they really needed Sherlock’s help. It’s not like it was in his hands anyway, it wasn’t like he could tell Mycroft to sod off, no matter how much he wanted to. It was a band aid reassurance to himself, but it was enough to calm his rattled nerves. 

 

~ Part 2 ~

 

By some miracle, Lestrade arrived at the crime scene before Sherlock and John. Sally stood near the police tape, attempting to cover a yawn with the back of her hand, a cup of coffee in either hand. She stretched out her other hand as he approached, offering him the other cup.

He took it happily, even knowing it would be cheap, black, and a bit too strong for him. “Thanks,” he said, bringing the cup to his mouth. 

She nodded her head back towards the crime scene, “Not much different from the other ones.”

Lestrade looked past her at the scene, the body had obviously been dumped there, the face was too marred to make out any defining features, but judging from the rest of her he’d say she fit the type: dark complexion, mid-thirties, dressed for clubbing, though she probably hadn’t expected it to become so literal. 

“Do me a favor and tell forensics to hold off for a few minutes,” he said, searching through the crowd of officers to find the man who’d found the body.

Sally groaned, “You called him in?”

“No,” said Lestrade, “higher up.”

“And I was getting used to you giving the freak the cold shoulder,” she grumbled, turning to move closer to the scene and the forensics team. Lestrade, however, reached out and pulled her back by the elbow. Donovan whipped her head back to look at him, a mixture of concern and agitation on her face.

Lestrade scowled and then tried to relax his face, pulling his arm away from her, “Do me a favor and try to lay off a bit.” She opened her mouth to argue but he held up a hand to stop her, “Look, I know, the two of you don’t get along but, just, don’t push your luck?” 

She gave him a confused look, “What are you on about?”

The D.I. felt torn, he had a genuine concern for Sally’s safety if she angered John again, but he couldn’t exactly just tell her the cause for his concern. Looking away somewhat guiltily, Lestrade admitted, “Sherlock isn’t the one I’m giving the cold shoulder.”

The look of confusion on her face deepened and then cleared, “John? You’ve not been—no, never mind, I’ve got work to do,” she said, turning away to inform the forensics team they would need to hold off on collecting evidence.

Lestrade let out another heavy sigh before heading to the other side of the crime scene to speak with the witness. The man was rattled, he’d only come up to the factory building to get something from his locker. The D.I. had only spoken with the man for a few minutes before he cut the interview short, his ears pricking up at the sound of Sally Donovan’s voice, “Oh look, the freaks are here.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, “Do you hear that John, she’s pluralized it.”

There was a familiar chuckle, “I’m honored,” said John.

“Honorary, rather,” replied Sherlock, “John Watson, Honorary Freak.”

Lestrade moved quickly to intercept them, but didn’t quite make it before Sally added in, “I had no idea psychopathy was contagious.”

“Donovan,” said Lestrade, moving to her side, “Why don’t you, er—“ There wasn’t exactly much for her to do and he found himself sputtering.

The sound of John snorting in an attempt not to laugh distracted both Lestrade and Donovan, “Sorry,” said John, “I mean, you shouldn’t be so worried, it’s not like I’m going to kill her or anything.”

Greg’s eyes went wide at the statement even as both Sherlock and John stifled laughter. Donovan retreated from them all, “Do hurry it up and get out of here so we can do our jobs, _freaks_ ”

“Sorry, Greg,” said John, sobering himself, “I shouldn’t make jokes, but you’ve been so skittish since, well, er, I’m just going to stop talking now.”

“Best idea you’ve had all morning, John,” added Sherlock, as he moved past them all to get to the body, “Would you look at this John, her heads been smashed in entirely!” 

John walked forward, glancing over the scene, “I’d say the cause of death is fairly obvious,” said the doctor as he knelt down to get closer so he could estimate time of death.

Sherlock hummed in thought, he looked down at the doctor, ignoring the team of officers that were watching them work, “How would you go about doing this sort of thing?”

John stood, “Well, I wouldn’t make as big a mess, that’s for sure.”

Lestrade paled. They were _joking_ about murder, John’s apparent hobby, in front of the Yard’s Homicide Department. 

John stepped back to get out of Sherlock’s way as he flitted about the crime scene in the way only Sherlock could. Donovan rejoined Lestrade’s side in the circle of Yarders waiting for the consulting detective to finish his collection of data. 

“They’re in an awfully good mood this morning,” she commented, “Must have been shagging when they got the call.” 

Ahead of them, John’s shoulders stiffened as he crossed his arms. Lestrade glared at her, “At least try to be appropriate, Sally.”

“To them? The psychopath and his groupie?” she shot back in an angry whisper. Several of the Yarders nearby edged away from them, politely ignoring the conversation.

“High functioning sociopath!” Sherlock yelled back as he took one last look at the body. The detective turned around to face Lestrade, sending his coat into a spin, “There are two others?”

“St. Bart’s,” Lestrade offered in supply. 

“Excellent,” said Sherlock, that bizarre smile of his plastered on his face. He turned his attention to John, “I’ll head to the morgue, you should head to the Yard with Lestrade to get the files.”

“I can just have someone drop them by,” Lestrade said hurriedly.

“Drop them off to who?” asked John, frowning at him, “Neither of us would be there. Honestly, don’t be so jumpy, what exactly do you think I’ll be doing in the middle of Scotland Yard?”

Lestrade frowned, unwilling to announce the cause of his nervousness. Still, he couldn’t prevent a nervous glance towards Sally. Sherlock scoffed, “Though I doubt there’s anyone here who wouldn’t like to take a swing at Sgt. Donovan, it is highly improbable that John would act in such a needlessly violent manner.”

Sally turned to give Lestrade another confused look and then cocked her head as if to examine John and Sherlock. “What the hell happened?” she asked, then focusing her attention on Lestrade, “What could _John_ have possibly done to out scale Sherlock bloody Holmes on your list of threats?”

“Sherlock Holmes is not a threat,” Lestrade answered, lowering his voice to something like a whisper.

“And John Watson is?” Sally laughed, “As if he’d hit a woman.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said John, though he was smiling when he said it, “I am a feminist after all.”

Donovan laughed openly, “Come on John, _I’ll_ take you to the Yard since the Detective Inspector seems to have his knickers in a twist.”

“Ta,” said John, before turning his attention to Sherlock, “text me if you change locations, please.” Just like that, John and Sally were leaving the scene to head to Scotland Yard together. 

Lestrade and Sherlock both scowled at the exchange. Sherlock hummed, “Most unusual.”

“I’ll say.”

“I must admit even I’m curious as to what she wants to say to him,” said Sherlock, “Especially after taking such effort to get him alone.”

“What?” asked Lestrade.

“Her attitude and disposition today were much different from her normally more hostile one and she’s taken some effort to finagle John into being alone with her. It is not sexual attraction, therefore, she has something she wants to say to him and him alone. It’s curious.” The detective relaxed his face and gave Lestrade a fake, but polite smile, “Drop me off at Barts?”

“Sure,” said the D.I., leading the way to his car. When they were out of earshot from the rest of the Yarders, he quietly asked the detective, “So, how is John, uh, is he, um—“

“Rehabilitation,” said Sherlock sharply, “We’ve returned him to his practice of rehabilitation, though I must say the case couldn’t have come at a better time, he was getting antsy. A good chase will help combat the urge to return to old practices.”

“Rehabilitation?” said Lestrade as he opened his car door. 

The two entered the vehicle and then Sherlock launched into an explanation, “While unorthodox, John’s past activities are very much an addiction. Before my ‘death’ we’d established a sort of rehabilitation, it’s a large part of why he became so active in my cases, they’re like a nicotine patch.”

“So you’re what?” asked Lestrade, “His sponsor?”

Sherlock only hummed in response, “I suppose so, though I don’t think that really covers the extent of our relationship.”

Lestrade considered that, but decided to let it go.

“At any rate,” said Sherlock, “you needn’t be so jumpy, John hasn’t killed anyone since Moriarty. He’s clean, so to speak.”

“Yeah, but now he’s chasing after a serial killer.”

“He’s unarmed,” said Sherlock, “he turned his weaponry over to me for safe-keeping.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, though he didn’t exactly find the idea reassuring. 

“Now shut up,” snapped Sherlock, “I need to think.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but gave the detective the silence he’d requested. 

 

~ Part 3 ~

 

After dropping Sherlock at the morgue, Lestrade returned to the Yard. He told himself he’d need to look over the new evidence, but in truth his nerves had driven him here. The D.I. stepped off the lift and looked around in search of John and Sally. They weren’t anywhere obvious, and Lestrade felt it might be too obvious what was going on if he actively searched for them. 

Instead, he went to his office, opened the blinds so he could see out on the offices, and seated himself in his chair. He busied himself with work, but found himself watching the lift more than working. After some time, he spotted Donavon walking John to the lift. They were talking amiably enough, and departed each other’s company quickly, John stepping onto the lift as Sally departed to return to her station. 

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He was over-reacting. Well, maybe he wasn’t, is it possible to over-react to the discovery of a friend being a serial killer?

“Wondering what the death toll is?”

Lestrade jumped, nearly falling out of his chair and then glared at John who was inexplicably standing in his doorway. “Bloody hell, I thought you’d gone.”

“Stealth has been an integral part of my life for a very long time,” said John, he gestured at the chair in front of Lestrade’s desk, “May I?”

Lestrade only vaguely gestured in answer, but John took it as a yes. He closed the door behind him and sat down in the uncomfortable office chair, leaning back into it as if he planned to be there awhile.

“You’ve got questions,” said John, “seems fair you get a chance to ask them.”

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, not quite believing what he was hearing, “Would you answer them?”

“Some of them,” John answered with a shrug, “Mycroft’s absolved me, so it’s not like you can arrest me or anything, but some of the cases and, er, jobs, were a bit higher than your pay grade.”

“Jobs?”

John gave him a crooked grin, “Would you believe that I actually met Mycroft before I met Sherlock?”

“Bloody hell.”

John waited patiently while Lestrade got his thoughts in order. He had a million questions, a million and one even, but only one question escaped him, “Are you going to keep killing?”

John appeared a bit surprised by the question, he sucked in a deep breath and exhaled loudly through his mouth before answering. The doctor looked Lestrade directly in the eyes and gave a solid answer. “Yes,” he said, “I will kill again.”

Lestrade’s jaw clenched.

“Listen, please,” said John, and Lestrade gave a minute tilt of his head to show he was listening. 

“Sherlock and I put ourselves in harm’s way all the time, frequently the people we go after have guns, sometimes we need to defend ourselves. Sherlock has asked that I not carry, for the time being, and I’m respecting that, but eventually something will happen. It’s the nature of the work. So, will I kill again, yes, most likely I will.”

“Will you murder again?” Lestrade asked, a bit more coldly than he knew he could be.

“I didn’t exactly handle Sherlock’s death in the best way,” said John, he paused thoughtfully, “I dunno,” he said, “I won’t just say ‘no’ because that’s what you want to hear, I’d rather be honest and say it’s possible.”

Lestrade let that sink in, but no matter how he spun them in his head all he heard was John confessing and predicting that it would happen again. _Rehabilitation? What a joke,_ he thought. 

Lestrade looked down at his desk, “Good luck on the case,” he said. John must have picked up on the tone, he left without another word. 

It would be nearly a week before he saw the detective or his doctor again.

 

~ Part 4 ~

 

Lestrade pounded on the door of 221B until an irritated Mrs. Hudson opened the door. Despite the late hour, the kind landlady held her tongue but the look she gave him was enough to know she was a bit miffed by his rude intrusion at 2am. 

With a brief thank you to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade charged up the stairs to the door of Sherlock’s flat and resumed his pounding. John opened the door, dressed in his pajamas, blinking at him for a moment, “Er,” said the doctor, “I think it’s for you, Sherlock.”

“Of course it is!” yelled Sherlock from inside the flat. John gestured him in and then disappeared back towards Sherlock’s bedroom. The detective, still fully dressed from his day, turned to look at him expectantly. 

Lestrade entered the flat, “Donovan’s been taken.”

Sherlock tilted his head at him, "It would have been faster to call."

"I did! Several times, you didn't answer!" Lestrade continued, “She fit the perp’s type, thought to send her to a club, undercover, we had people all over, watching, she came over her com saying something about the last stall, but it was garbled and—“

The detective immediately went for his coat, preparing to leave, “Did anyone actually see her leave the club?”

“No.”

“And no one inside noticed her with someone?”

“No.”

John emerged from Sherlock’s bedroom, dressed and ready, he too began to pull on his coat, having listened in on the conversation. “And why didn’t you contact Sherlock if you had a lead on the club?”

Lestrade took a guilty glance at the floor and then to Sherlock, “We, er, I just—“

John sighed, “You do realize I’ve given up that particular hobby, right?”

Lestrade frowned, but didn’t answer.

“Doesn’t matter, Donovan is in danger,” said Sherlock, leading them out of the flat, “let’s hope our killer likes to play with her food.”

“Her?” said Lestrade.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “We found some evidence today that the killer is likely female.”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade growled in frustration, “We were looking for a male. Why didn’t you tell us!”

“We didn’t realize,” said Sherlock, as they arrived outside, “that you’d be putting Sgt. Donovan in harm’s way. Now hurry, we need to get to this club, quickly.”

The three of them piled into Lestrade’s car and the D.I. drove quickly, his lights on to clear traffic. They arrived at the dance club, a place called Heaven. Truthfully, it had been something of a lucky guess on the Yard’s part to have set up a stakeout on the right location. 

Sherlock and John were both nearly out of the car before he came to a complete spot and they practically ran into the building. Lestrade followed as quickly as he could. When he entered the club, the two men were entering the women’s toilet.

“Last stall?” John commented as he followed the detective.

Lestrade caught up and followed them into the disgusting club bathroom. Sherlock wasted no time reaching the last stall and began inspecting it. There was a click and a creak and Sherlock poked his head out of the stall, “Brilliant! Hidden stairs!”

John groaned, “People are going to think I made this one up.”

“Don’t worry, John,” said Sherlock, his voice a bit more distant, a hint of an echo, “people already think you make up most of it.”

John followed Sherlock into the stall, “Coming, Greg?”

“Yeah,” said the D.I., finally able to move in front of the stall now that the narrow space was clear. Sure enough, there was a small hatch way in the wall, cut in such a manner that no one outside of the stall could see when it was closed. Greg followed them through the tight space and onto the stairway which led down to a basement space. There, they found a manhole, complete with ladder, which led them down into the city’s tunnels, meant to help redirect water during heavy storms.

“Why do I get the feeling,” said Lestrade, “this is going to lead us to the warehouse district?”

“You don’t get points for guessing,” said Sherlock. John sighed and shook his head, “Which way, genius?”

“This way,” answered Sherlock, “be on guard.”

John and Lestrade both responded with tight nods before following the detective down the tunnel. They moved swiftly, while trying to keep quiet. After traveling what must have been several blocks, they heard the first signs of Donovan, a muffled scream, but a scream meant she was still alive. 

Sherlock slid to a stop in front of another metal ladder leading up to another manhole, Donovan could be heard struggling above them. Lestrade watched as the consulting detective and his doctor exchanged meaningful glances, the detective stepped back to allow John to go up first. 

Lestrade followed up the ladder behind Sherlock, with John taking lead. They stopped for a moment, clinging to the metal bars, when John stopped to delicately lift the cover above him. John signaled for them to stay still for a moment, and then moved through the hole. 

Several sounds followed, Donovan’s muffled scream, the sound of metal hitting brick, scuffling, the sound of muffled yelling from Donovan, a gunshot, more scuffling, a second gunshot, and then: silence. 

Lestrade could practically feel his face pale, and Sherlock looked down at him with a stern “stay silent” sort of look. A second later, John appeared at the manhole, “Come on up.”

By the time he’d made it up the ladder and through the manhole, Lestrade was certain he’d find Donovan and the killer dead. _Should have known he wasn’t really unarmed, he fooled Sherlock._

He was surprised to find a very different story laid out before him when he got to his feet. They were in a warehouse, the evidence of the past murders still obvious. The killer, a woman as Sherlock had predicted was unconscious, but breathing, her arm was slightly grazed, but not bleeding heavily. Sgt. Donovan was wrapped tightly in John’s arms, clearly shaken from her experience, and allowing herself to be comforted by the doctor. 

Sherlock was holding the gun between his thumb and index finger, letting it dangle by the handle. Lestrade searched his pockets and found an evidence bag, he held it out for Sherlock to place the gun inside. The detective smiled, “Belonged to the killer, from what I gather she attempted to shoot John, he had to wrestle it away, he fired the second shot in an effort to disarm her, managed to get a good hit with the butt of the gun to her head, she’ll live.”

Lestrade nodded and eyed the doctor and Donovan again. John had released her from his hug, she was putting herself back in order, calming down. She turned her attention to the two detectives, “Thank you,” she said with a weak smile, “both of you.”

“London has a deficit of good cops,” said Sherlock, “be a shame to lose one of the few it has.”

Donovan scoffed, “Was that a compliment?”

“You’ll never be able to prove it,” the detective responded harshly, then he turned to Lestrade, “Should probably call this in, get an ambulance.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, pulling his phone from his pocket and setting to work. It didn’t take long for an ambulance and more Yarders to arrive. John and Sherlock waited around to give statements, and within an hour Lestrade found himself walking them back to a street busy enough to hail a taxi. Sherlock walked several paces ahead, the D.I. could only assume it was on purpose.

John cleared his throat to get the D.I.’s attention, “I know you aren’t very comfortable with me after learning about all of, well, my past. I don’t blame you, it’s only natural, but I, er, I hope it won’t prevent you from getting help from Sherlock. You’re one of the few people he actually likes.”

“You could have shot her,” Lestrade said in response, “that woman, you could have shot her.”

“Yeah,” said John, “wanted to, to be honest, but Sherlock doesn’t like it, and, well, I’m trying not to do that anymore.”

Lestrade nodded his head, thinking over the night’s events, perhaps rehabilitation wasn’t such a crazy idea after all. “I’ve got some cold cases Sherlock might to take a look at,” said the D.I., “why don’t you both come by on Monday, take a look.”

“We’d both appreciate something to do,” said John, “thanks.”


End file.
